Page 30 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

S he doesn't text back.

I wasn’t expecting her to.

But fuck, I wish she did.

The screen of my phone is dim. Time passes. No message. No relief.

Santo told me he saw her at Exile tonight.

Enzo let me know she was home safe soon after.

I sit in the dim loft, jaw tight, lungs aching like breathing is an inconvenience.

I’m trying. God knows I am. But it feels like clawing at smoke. Like there’s a future right there, inches from me, but I can’t touch it.

Every night, if I’m not beating the shit out of Armenians or intercepting shipments—I’m at the loft. Fixing it up. Repainting walls. Replacing furniture. Leaving pieces of her there like breadcrumbs in case she decides to follow them.

Or maybe I’m just haunting myself with a life I don’t deserve.

The girls we rescued—they’ve been keeping me busy. Purpose helps. So does anger. Anything to keep from thinking about her scent, her lips, her silence.

Her.

Maksim’s a fucking dick, his presence around her grating like sandpaper .

And now? Now I get it.

I get why Santo wanted to rip my throat out for breathing too close to Vasilisa.

I get home late, the city lights a blur through weary eyes.

Exhaustion hangs on me like a heavy cloak.

My jaw aches from clenching, my knuckles are raw and bruised.

My soul? That’s been shot to hell since the day she saw my damn shrine, a ruin of what it once was.

But the moment I step into the penthouse, I smell it.

Her scent.

Dark cherry. Soft. Sweet. A little bitter at the edge like her temper.

It’s everywhere now—her perfume clinging to the walls like smoke.

Wrapping around me like memory.

Like permission.

And fuck, I love it.

Her door’s closed.

I don’t knock. I don’t breathe too loud.

I don’t want to push.

Something pulls me toward my own room. Hand by my gun, I enter, shoulders tense, ready for anything.

But then I stop.

Because something’s different.

The air is cooler.

I glance at the far end of the room and I see it.

The window.

Cracked open.

Just enough to let the air slip through.

Just enough to let me in.

She was here.

In my room.

She came in, walked across my floor and opened the window.

That’s not nothing .

That’s not a mistake.

That’s a sign.

That’s her.

And just like that, like a fucking miracl e, the pressure in my chest eases.

The grip on my lungs loosens.

And I breathe like I might survive this.

I don’t touch the window.

I just stand there.

Letting the air fill my lungs like she gave me permission to exist again.

***

The scent of breakfast hits me before I’m fully awake.

Warm bread. Eggs. Coffee.

Something else, too. Something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

I’m not used to waking up to the scent of breakfast anymore. Not since Clara left that first week, not since Adriana began closing every door between us, both literally and metaphorically.

But this morning is different.

I get ready quickly, quietly. Like if I make too much noise, I’ll shatter the moment.

And when I walk into the kitchen—

Dio.

She’s there.

Pink dress. Long sleeves. Modest, but clinging to her like devotion.

She’s glowing. Soft and radiant, like sunlight after a funeral. The color? On her skin?

Perfection .

Her hair’s loose, perfect waves, and shining. Her legs cross at the ankle as she turns to look at me, a plate in each hand, setting them down at the table like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Her brown eyes meet mine.

Direct. Warm. Open.

“Good morning,” she says, softly, but not shy. Like she means it.

I nearly fall apart.

She’s speaking to me.

To me.

Not ignoring. Not walking past. Not leaving.

Talking.

Not through grit or bitterness.

Just her voice.

Soft. Steady. Home.

“Good morning,” I manage, the words caught in gravel.

I move toward her like I’m afraid she’ll vanish. I pull out the chair across from hers and sit. My hands are on the table, but I don’t reach for the food. Not yet.

I watch her instead.

She eats like it’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

She’s sitting here, eating at our table, like the silence between us never grew teeth. Like the damage isn’t irreparable.

One of her legs tucked under her, her fingers wrapped delicately around silverware. Her lips— God, those lips —soft, red, full of words I’ve been starving to hear again.

Her scent curls into my lungs.

I’m dizzy with it. With her.

Then, without looking up, she says:

“You better have changed the sheets too. They were never soft enough.”

I blink. “What? ”

“The sheets. In the loft.”

My heart stops.

My breath catches in my throat, a sudden halt. My pulse roars in my ears, a thunderous drumbeat. “The loft?”

I stare at her, stunned.

And when she finally meets my gaze again, I see it.

Something shifted.

A choice.

A decision.

“Yes,” she says clearly. “I’m going to the loft with you. And we’re going to start over.”

I don’t breathe.

I don’t move.

I’m afraid it’ll all slip through my fingers again.

That I imagined it. That this is a dream and I’m about to wake up alone again.

But she continues, her resolve unwavering.

“I have a lot of unanswered questions,” she adds, her voice carrying a firmer edge now. “So no lies. No expectations.”

Each word hits like a commandment.

And I nod.

“Okay.”

She raises a brow. “Okay?”

“Yes. No lies. No expectations.” I repeat it like scripture.

Because it is.

Because she just cracked the window open, and now she’s giving me a door.

And I’ll crawl through both on my knees if I have to.

She watches me for a long second. Then turns back to her food like she didn’t just reroute the entire trajectory of my soul.

I eat in silence.

But inside ?

I’m already perfecting furniture in my mind.

Changing sheets.

Preparing for something new.

Something sacred.

Preparing for her.

“I’ll be gone most of the day,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “I’ll pack some things tonight. Should I meet you there?”

I thought we’d go together. But if she meets me, maybe that gives me time.

Time to make it perfect.

“Alright,” I say.

Her gaze flicks up, sharp and measured.

“Is seven okay?”

“Yeah. Seven works.”

She nods once, gathers her dishes, puts them in the sink and disappears down the hall.

And I sit in the kitchen, alone.

Her words echo in my mind long after she leaves the room: No lies. No expectations.

We’re going to start over.

***

I hear the knock before I'm ready.

Three soft thuds against the loft door.

My heart stutters. Once. Twice. Then it starts racing like I’m twenty again and about to do something reckless.

I wipe my hands on a towel and move down the steps toward the door, each step heavy with memory.

When I open it, the scent of her hits first; something sweet and familiar, like nostalgia and daydreams stitched together .

Then I see her.

Adriana.

Fuck.

She’s wearing red.

No— wine . Something deep and slinky and sinful that clings to her like it was made to torment me.

My lungs forget what they’re supposed to do.

She’s… breathtaking.

“You look stunning,” I say before I can stop myself. My voice is too soft, too reverent.

Her eyes flicker with something—regret, maybe.

She mumbles a polite “Thanks,” but she won’t meet my gaze.

I swallow the frustration and take the bags from her hands, fingers brushing hers. She flinches.

She's nervous.

I head up the stairs and she follows.

I disappear down the hallway, every muscle tense. I set her things on the bed and take a deep breath before heading back. My palms are sweating. Fucking sweating.

This is fine.

We're starting over. I’ve survived worse.

When I return, she’s standing in the kitchen like a ghost slipped into something divine. Like she doesn’t belong here, and yet… everything around her orients like she’s gravity.

“I was making dinner,” I offer, rubbing my hands together like an idiot. “It’s not done yet but…”

She doesn’t respond.

Her eyes are scanning the room, slow, searching, sharp. She takes in the couch. The walls. The curtains.

Red.

Shit.

She notices .

I see it—the way her throat tightens. Her chest rising faster than it should. Her eyes flick to the record player in the corner, and I swear her whole body stiffens.

Then panic.

It floods her eyes, quick and violent.

“Adriana?” I step forward, all my instincts screaming at me to fix whatever I broke this time.

She blinks.

I can see the war happening behind her eyes, the past and present colliding like shrapnel.

“Are you okay?”

A pause.

Then a lie. “Yeah… I just have to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

I nod, even though I know she’s not fine.

I watch her walk down the hall, back straight, heels silent.

I lean against the counter and drag a hand down my face, the scent of basil clinging to my skin.

I plate the food and set the table, each movement slow and deliberate, like I’m trying to steady the storm building in my chest.

This isn’t a date.

She doesn’t want a date.

Then why did she dress like that?

Like she’s trying too .

That hair, waves spilling over sun-kissed skin like she walked straight out of my memory and into my living room.

That red dress—tight, elegant, defiant.

Like it was made for her and her alone.

Even her lips are red.

She looks like the night I met her.

The night she invaded my mind and never left.

I hear the click of her heels again, and my pulse kicks up.

She returns, slow and composed, but she freezes when she sees the table .

Just for a second.

Barely a heartbeat.

But I feel it.

She takes a breath, shoulders lifting, then lowers into the chair across from me like it’s an execution, not dinner.

“It looks good,” she says softly.

God, her voice.

Every time she speaks it’s like sanctity carved straight into my bones.

I used to wake up to that voice.

Now I’d sell my soul just to hear it say my name without flinching.

“Thank you,” I manage, voice rough.

She picks up her fork, her fingers tremble.

Only slightly.

But enough.

She’s nervous because of me.

The realization lands like a punch to the gut.

I’ve made her nervous.